Page 37 of Auctioned To Be Mine

“It leveled me.” She looked up. “I was sitting at this table surrounded by people who were more interested in being seen at the event than in anything Betty was actually saying. And I just thought, what are we doing? Anyone at that event could have covered that family’s expenses and never missed the money.”

That confused me a little bit. Why was she there? Maybe a plus-one.

“You thought it wasn’t fair,” I said.

She shook her head slightly. “I thought, this is what money is supposed to do. This is what it’s for.” She took a sip of wine. “I went up to Betty afterward and told her I wanted to volunteer. She put me to work the next morning.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that.” The corner of her mouth curved upward. “My family didn’t exactly celebrate the decision.”

“Your family didn’t approve of you volunteering?”

“No. We were supposed to write checks, not get our hands dirty.”

Again, I was confused. Write checks? I searched my brain but I couldn’t place her name in the social circles my family ran in. I watched her sip her wine. The way she ate her food, held herself.

Well, well, well. Little Miss Victoria came from money.

“Let me guess,” I said, wanting to keep her talking. “They thought it was a phase.”

“Yep. Then it was an embarrassment. Then it was a betrayal.” She sighed and took another sip of wine. “My father cut me off completely about eight months in. Said if I wanted to play charity worker, I could fund it myself.”

I was quiet for a moment. “That’s a hard line to draw.”

“He draws hard lines.” There was no bitterness in her voice, just acceptance that told me she’d made her peace with it long ago. “He’s not a bad man. He just genuinely can’t understand why anyone with access to money would choose not to use it to accumulate more money. The concept doesn’t compute.”

I wanted to ask about what kind of access, but that wasn’t the point of her story.

“My father is not that extreme,” I said slowly. “But I understand the sentiment more than you might think.”

She looked at me with some surprise, like she hadn’t expected that.

“His whole life is Blackwell Studios,” I said. “He built it. It’s his blood and bones. And he has a lot of children. Most of us want nothing to do with the entertainment side of things. My mom and dad thrive in the limelight. They love the movie business, but it’s not our thing. Cleo wants to design wedding gowns. Drew would rather be out on his boat than sitting in a production meeting. I’ve got my hands in enough different pots that Dad can’t really complain, but I know it stings. He pictured us all carrying on the studio legacy and instead he got Cleo the dressmaker, Drew the investor, and me who has a mind for business.”

“But not show business?” she asked.

I nodded. “Exactly.”

She smiled. “Does he say anything?”

“He doesn’t have to. It’s in the eyes.” I swirled the last of my wine. “He’s proud of us, I think. In the way that fathers are proud when their kids are successful even if it’s not the success they imagined. But there’s an undercurrent. Like he’s waiting for one of us to come around and take the wheel at the studio.”

“And none of you will.”

“And none of us will.” I set my glass down. “My cousin Adrian runs his father’s business. Well, they all kind of run it, but whatever. I think our father thinks we should be doing that as well. I don’t think any of us could do it the way he does, and I think somewhere underneath all the pressure, he knows that.”

She was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite figure it out. It wasn’t pity. Something more like understanding.

“It’s different from what happened to me,” she said carefully. “He didn’t cut you off.”

“No. He did not. And I’m not trying to compare it. You took a genuine hit for what you believe in.” I met her eyes. “That’s a tough call, Victoria. Most people wouldn’t be able to make it.”

She smiled. “It was the right call,” she said quietly. “I’d make it again.”

I believed her completely.

We finished dinner in no rush. Contrary to what it felt like when I started the night, I wasn’t in a hurry to leave. At some point the server had cleared our plates and left the check. I signed it without breaking the conversation, which I was fairly certain was a personal record. I was usually watching the clock at this point in an evening, mentally calculating escape routes. Instead, I’d lost track of time entirely.